


Something To Talk About

by flecksofpoppy



Series: Poppy's Adventures in Night Ficcing [10]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol Mentions, High School Reunion, M/M, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 18:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5675974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And before long, Jean realized he’d told this person individual he hadn’t seen for ten years almost everything about himself—sad nights when he felt lonely, happy afternoons of walking through the park, the stresses of his demanding job, and his friends. Both the annoying ones, <i>and</i> the ones he actually liked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something To Talk About

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShukiAi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShukiAi/gifts).



> Based on a tumblr prompt from shukiai! "Jeanmarco - reuniting at a ten year high school reunion"

It’s in the gym. Of course the cheap bastards at P.S. 104 would have their shitty reunion in the fucking gym. It’s like high school all over again, and Jean really doesn’t want to go.

He gets a postcard in the mail, followed by an “evite,” followed by a Facebook event invite.

It even says “evite” in the email subject line, obviously created in some godawful virtual greeting card design software. Then, to make matters even more ridiculous, he receives a message from an old classmate on Facebook.

It’s short, a typical, “Hi, long time no see, saw you on the event.” And then asks if Jean also saw the evite. 

The old classmate even uses the _word_ evite, and Jean doesn’t reply on principle for a week. Facebook is the absolute worst—a bastion for the social media-inept and old people.

But then, one night, feeling privately nostalgic and half a bottle of wine deep, he decides to reply.

“Fine. Yeah, I got it. You?” 

That’s it.

He wasn’t really expecting a response, given how long he’d dawdled, but when one popped up the next morning that involved a detailed yet still appropriately casual summary of what old classmate had been doing for the last ten years, he was intrigued.

The guy’s life was stupidly ordinary life, but he mentioned at least twice that he was thinking about moving. He sounded restless, and Jean grew even more curious.

At first, all of his responses involved alcohol since they came at a whim, whether he was drinking alone or returning from a night out. It was like a hobby, seeing if this old acquaintance would reply to his short, boring Facebook messages; but there was always a response waiting for him as long as he took his turn sending a reply.

Eventually, though, he started expecting it and the messages became a routine part of his day. He began to enjoy waking up to these messages, whether it was about a serious topic like how the guy’s mom was ill and recovering, to something as mundane as his excitement over the fact that they had finally had tulips in stock at the grocery store.

But then, Jean had promptly felt like an idiot. He barely remembered the guy from high school, even though there were fleeting memories of random classes or events... but he just seemed so genuinely amicable.

And before long, Jean realized he’d told this person individual he hadn’t seen for ten years almost everything about himself—sad nights when he felt lonely, happy afternoons of walking through the park, the stresses of his demanding job, and his friends. Both the annoying ones, _and_ the ones he actually liked.

Even though he felt a little silly about how much he enjoyed these conversations, the guy _did_ live five states away, so it didn’t seem like a big deal, or even a risk.

That was, until Jean realized that the high school reunion was a mere week away, the entire reason they’d connected in the first place, and the one he hadn’t been planning on going to. But he didn’t have the heart to cancel—not after his new/old friend on social media, especially since he was adult enough to admit that they were both looking forward to seeing each other, whether either one would openly admit it or not.

So here he is, standing in the very same gym where he used to sit awkwardly alone on the side during dances, unable to get a date if his life depended on it. Now he’s dressed in something he thinks is innocuous enough that he looks good, but still doesn’t look like he’s trying too hard. He’s pleased to see that he still has relatively the same face he did in high school, unlike some of these other losers with too many kids.

And then, just as Jean is loitering next to the refreshment table listening to some awful song that was probably a number one a decade ago, he spots his Facebook penpal. 

Unexpectedly, the guy beelines straight for Jean, but it’s only when Jean has already awkwardly stammered out, “You!” that the guy’s head jerks up and he looks startled.

Given the surprised expression, it’s suddenly obvious that he wasn’t headed for Jean, but no doubt for the safety of the refreshment table. Even though Jean remembers that he was sociable, a high school reunion is enough pressure to spook even the most charismatic person into the corner for a while.

Then, they just stare at each other, Facebook pen-pals in the flesh (even thinking of Facebook makes Jean feels old), and Jean musters an awkward smile.

“Uh, hi, Jean,” the freckly guy whose name has suddenly slipped his mind replies, one eyebrow raised. He quickly steps around Jean to go for an open bottle of wine on the table and pour it into one of the crappy plastic cups.

“Sorry,” Jean replies awkwardly. “I just meant... _you_.” He makes two weak finger guns, and receives a somewhat bemused smile in return. “Hey _you_ , what’s up?”

Oh shit, what’s his name? Jean’s been staring at his fucking profile for months and months! _What’s his name... don’t do this right now..._

Marco.

“Marco!” Jean croaks out abruptly, trying to stop the relieved expression that threatens to cross his face. “Marco, what’s up?”

“You forgot my name, didn’t you? It’s okay, I sort of put you on the spot.”

And so, as has been the case for the past six months, Jean finds himself rendered speechless at this irritatingly cheerful _creature_ standing in front of him.

He looks a lot different than his profile picture, actually.

The cheerful creature, whose face is smattered with endearing, boyish freckles and is now smiling from behind his plastic cup filled with shitty red wine, trying to hide it, but not really.

“No,” Jean ventures, crossing his arms defensively. “I remember. I graduated with honors from this shit hole. You think I can’t remember a name?”

“Of course I know you can remember a name,” Marco replies, still obviously amused as he shifts to push a hand into his pocket. “I was always a few behind you on the honor roll list.” 

Jean actually does remember this, and he finally smiles faintly. “Right,” he agrees, nodding. 

They just stand there for a minute, and Jean sneaks another glance at Marco’s face. It’s weird, because although he doesn’t look like his profile photo, unlike many other people in the room, Marco actually looks _younger_ than he does in photos on Facebook.

Not that Jean snooped through his photo albums from the last four years.

Obviously.

And not that Marco Bodt’s shoulders look really impressive in the sun, standing on a beach on vacation, with an unnamed companion Jean is wildly curious about.

“What the hell is with all these kids?” is the first thing that emerges from Jean’s mouth, and then he snaps it shut.

But Marco just laughs, rolling his eyes slightly and giving Jean a warm smile. He’s also wearing a suit.

Who the fuck wears a suit to a _high school reunion?_

“I like kids,” Marco replies simply with a slight shrug. “My sister has six and I babysit them all the time.”

“You want six of your own?”

“I don’t think so,” Marco replies, a thoughtful expression crossing his face as he takes another sip of his drink, “one or two will do. And now that gay marriage is legal in this country, I guess it’ll be easier to adopt, huh?” He smiles, meeting Jean’s eyes.

So he’s gay.

Or bisexual.

Or... something. But not straight.

“So, um,” Marco starts, shifting a little, “how are things?”

One thing Jean realized—and unfortunately, very recently—was that Marco knows a lot of things about him, but he doesn’t actually know nearly as much about Marco.

“If you mean, did I manage to get out of the lease,” Jean sighs, frowning a little, “the answer is yeah, just barely.”

“Oh, uh,” Marco replies awkwardly, taking a very long swallow of his wine, “I just meant in general.”

Jean looks up quickly, feeling immediately mortified at his over-familiar assumption, and shakes his head with a pained smile. “Oh! You know, great! Doing stuff. Going places. Job’s great.” He’s babbling.

Also: bullshit, bullshit, and... okay, mostly-bullshit.

More like: feeling more lonely than usual lately since breaking up with Eren eight months before, doing jackshit, going nowhere except his local pizza place, and being miserable at his job. The only saving grace is that, although his job is miserable, at least it pays well. That’s something.

“Stuff?” Marco asks, sounding genuinely interested. “What kind of stuff?”

“What are _you_ doing?” Jean retorts, turning the tables.

“I already told you,” he says, finally referencing their lengthy conversations on the Social Media Platform For Old People; for some reason, Jean is relieved it’s out in the open now. “I’m just sort of... dabbling in things.”

“How’s um... how’s the writing thing going?” Jean asks, hesitant to admit again that they’ve had these conversations, but heartened at Marco’s willingness to finally reference them.

“I gave up on the book.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Jean replies awkwardly, pushing his hands into his pockets.

“It’s really nice to meet you, Jean,” Marco says warmly, interrupting the weird small talk that Jean is growing to hate more and more by the minute. “You know,” he adds, extending his hand, “re-meet you, I mean, in person.”

Jean’s taken off guard when Marco lets his hand hover in the air, and he finally breaks down and reaches out to return a firm handshake.

“Um, you too,” he agrees, not sure what to say.

First of all, Marco is really cute, and Jean has made up for his teenage awkwardness over the years by flirting with every attractive person he meets like there’s no tomorrow. It’s rare he acts on any of it, but it’s like a hobby at this point.

But for some reason, that brash charm that usually comes so naturally to him is totally absent with this guy; maybe because Jean’s not sure he would fall for it. He’s not sure Marco’s the flirting type, and even if he is, flirting is for people you don’t know that well yet.

And they do know each other.

“You look a lot different than your profile picture,” Jean blurts out. “I mean, not that it’s a bad thing...”

And Marco, without missing a beat and still holding onto Jean’s hand, shoots him a charming smile and replies, “You think I should use that one for my Tinder profile?”

Jean’s mouth opens and closes, and then he just stares, unsure if Marco’s serious.

“That was a joke, Jean.”

Their hands are still clasped.

“Uh...”

“You want some wine?”

_“Yes.”_

Marco obliges.

Jean takes a deep breath, watching Marco intently; it’s been a long time since someone took him off guard like this without seemingly even trying.

He pours the wine smoothly, turning to offer Jean another warm smile and hold out the glass.

“I’m assuming you like white, right?” he asks as Jean accepts the glass and takes a few bold swallows.

“Why?” he replies.

“Because, um,” Marco clears his throat, setting his own empty glass on the table and crossing his arms over his chest, “that’s what mentioned you were drinking the second time you wrote back.”

“I did?” Jean asks, his eyes wide. He laughs nervously, flattered that Marco remembered (whether he’s willing to acknowledge it or not), and gives a quick nod. “Well, then um, you were right.”

They stand there for a few minutes, just watching their old classmates mingle and make awkward conversation, until Marco whispers conspiratorially to Jean, “This is the most awkward thing I’ve ever seen.”

Jean gives a surprised laugh, immediately warming to the secretly critical assessment of the crowd, and he turns his head to whisper back, “Check out Historia Reiss, though. She’s still hot.”

Marco clears his throat, laughing a little, and shakes his head. “That’s her wife over there. The mean looking one.”

“The one with the freckles?”

“Yeah,” Marco confirms, his voice playful, “we’re the ones to really watch out for. Mean as they come.”

Jean snorts and rolls his eyes, bumping his shoulder into Marco’s companionably. “Bullshit. You’re like the stupidly nicest guy I’ve ever met.”

Oops. Well, that didn’t sound like a pick-up line.

Marco makes an embarrassed, somewhat... okay, _adorable_... noise and ducks his head, and Jean feels something warm rush through him that’s unfamiliar. It’s not a sense of victory of becoming the center of someone’s attention and attraction, and it’s also not idle, temporary companionship between himself and the person he happens to hate the least in an awkward situation. It’s just pure... contentment. 

“Hey,” Marco says suddenly, turning to look at Jean with a more serious expression on his face, “so...” He looks down suddenly, uncharacteristically shy given how friendly he’s been so far, and asks hesitantly, “You got out of the lease? That sounded like a pretty bad situation with your ex.”

“Yeah,” Jean murmurs, feeling his heart clench a little, but suddenly not feeling quite so bad about the whole thing. “He’s okay, and we knew each other for a long time before... it just didn’t work out. But I _did_ get out of the lease.”

“Jean?”

“Hm?”

“They’re starting the slow dance music.”

“I will be _fucked_ ,” Jean declares, eyeing the remaining wine, “if I slow dance at a high school reunion.” He’s feeling a little bolder, probably from the wine, and looks Marco straight in the eye before saying, “Even if it was with you.”

Marco just stares back at him with those big, dark eyes, uncannily still and calm, like a deer, and then he smiles. It’s fucking radiant, and takes Jean’s breath away.

“You’re saying you’d consider it, if it was me?”

Jean opens his mouth, pointing at Marco to correct that assumption, before closing it.

“Do you want to go get dinner?” he blurts out instead, staring at Marco, sort of dazed in that way you get when you look at the sun for too long.

“Yeah,” Marco replies, shrugging his suit jacket off, “I’d really like that, actually.”

Jean realizes he must be smiling pretty openly now himself, because Marco actually blushes faintly, before looking away.

“So uh, do you have horrible ex stories, too?”

“Are you asking if I’m single?”

Jean puffs up his chest. “No, of course not.”

“Yeah, I’m single.” Marco snorts a little, studying Jean, and tilts his head toward the exit. “But even if I wasn’t, I’d still want to hang out. It helps that you’re really hot, though.”

Jean is left stammering and trying to formulate a comeback even as he’s whisked out of the gym, a steady, gentle hand pressed against the small of his back that’s distracting and enjoyable enough to cause him serious concern for his sanity, and then Marco is laughing.

“We have a lot to talk about,” he says, as Jean follows him across the parking lot toward his car. The sun is sitting low in the sky.

“We’ve already talked a lot.”

Marco shoots a glance over his shoulder, smiling that smile again. “Let’s not stop.”

Jean grins in return, small and subtle, but there, and nods.


End file.
